A Mexican hook
delivered to the liver by
Ruben Olivares, like a sharpened
screwdriver jammed into a skinny
neck or a knife thrust upwards
into the gut of a fat man.
It had the same effect. He
drank whiskey with his fans.

Smiled a lot. Plenty of women.

When he hit somebody with that
hook, and he hit everybody he
fought, it was curtains. Ruben
put plenty of people to bed.
Kicked their ass before he
tucked them in and kissed them
goodnight. Made sleepwalkers out
of perfectly respectable
opponents.